


Penultimate

by orphan_account



Category: Free!
Genre: First Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 02:35:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2133891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first relationship, the first time your heart skips and you hold hands and use formal titles for each other, is said to never, if rarely last.</p><p>Makoto knows this, has accepted that its expiration is soon, but no one ever wants that, do they? Not when you're fifteen and the world seems endless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Penultimate

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second fic I've done where I've tried writing a character from High Speed who has yet to be introduced in the anime.
> 
> Kisumi is totally Makoto's first relationship, I've been crying about this all day.

The Tachibana home is quiet.

It’s never quiet, after all, it houses a teenage boy and two manic children, bound by energy and the longing to discover, the twins fueled by sugar and screams, the teenager fueled by sugar and raging hormones.

But today, it’s still. Makoto’s parents had taken the twins out for dinner, promising they’d be back before nightfall and that they’re fine with leaving Makoto by himself, because he’s not, really. When it’s not Haru hanging out with him, it’s Kisumi, who’s started coming over a lot more often than his best friend, who bounces like a basketball in front of Makoto’s parents, who tells Ren and Ran about his own little brother and how they should meet up one day. 

The churn of guilt still stirs in the pit of Makoto’s stomach; if only his parents knew what he was up to with not his friend, but his boyfriend, his boyfriend for ten months, ten _whole_ months and the majority of their last year in middle school.

But it’s not like they need to suspect for much longer. Just a couple of more weeks to be exact, when it’s graduation and everyone goes their separate ways for their own high schools with a small promise to reunite.

And so Makoto finds himself now, lying parallel to Kisumi, his head against the foot of his bed, Kisumi’s on Makoto’s pillow a few centimeters away from him. They’re not a perfect equal sign, despite both being taller than average, what with Makoto having his third growth spurt in less than a year and his head a safe distance away from Kisumi’s feet. Makoto remembers talking to Kisumi in the empty stairwell on the way to lunch the day after his last measurement a month ago, how he’s scared one day that he’ll be tall enough to reach the clouds (heights are scary), that he’ll be too tall for Kisumi.

Kisumi had only laughed and leaned up, saying, “It’s a good thing you’re quitting basketball, because that’s the only reason I’d be upset that you’re still getting taller,” and kissed him against the brick wall.

They’re both shirtless, their pants riding a bit lower on their hips than normal and the flies undone, chests heaving in steady breaths. It’s like when they finish sprints across the basketball courts or race and after the initial knee-clutching, recovering staggered breaths to stop the stitch on their sides, find themselves in a calm state, locking eyes and smiling when their slow breaths anchor them back to earth. 

The song on the radio, a soft one with a calming female voice that sounds like the flurries of snow outside fades away and there’s the surge of the DJ’s voice, awkward and loud, along with the radio jingle as music becomes conversation.

“Oh.” Makoto shoots up, stares at the mini boombox on his desk.

“Are you okay Makoto?” Kisumi gets up and puts his hand on his shoulder. In an act only reserved for when Makoto’s back goes stiff or he gets unusually quiet when they’re alone, he’s caught off guard when Kisumi moves his hand down to Makoto’s bicep to make room for his mouth, pressing feather-light kisses in the same spot, in a one kiss-two kiss-pause to let Makoto take a calming breath-repeat pattern.

“The station went to commercial.” Makoto says stupidly, as if it’s a big deal that the chipper voice of a hyperactive lady pitches some sort of organic dog food is now filtering through the speakers, metallic, cheap, annoying.

“So, the songs will come back soon.” Kisumi raises an eyebrow before he flops back to his original spot. Makoto takes a sharp breath, he loves how Kisumi looks on his bed, _his_ bed, and wonders how once upon a time, he was terrified of the two sitting on it at the same time. They’ve done more than that by now, so much more, hands exploring everywhere, _everywhere_ , sometimes their mouths. He knows what Kisumi looks like near-naked on his bed, how he looks when he’s grabbing Makoto’s sheets and his peachy hair (soft, so, so soft) is thrown back and beautiful purple eyes (like the color of Makoto’s favorite crayon growing up) peeking through fluttering eyelashes when he releases.

Makoto falls back too, sighing when his head hits the comforter. “But the commercials feel like forever.”  
“But they always come back in the end, right?”

“You won’t come back.” Makoto says to the ceiling.

“Iwatobi High isn’t good for basketball.” Kisumi repeats. “You could have come with me.”

“Yeah, but…”

“It’s fine. I know why you’re staying back.” Kisumi pushes himself halfway up, leaning back on his hands, and smiles. “Hey, do you want to try what we did last week again?”

Makoto bites his lips and looks down Kisumi’s body, pausing at the midpoint when his eyes scan back up. His mouth was there last week, trying not to choke as Kisumi cried out, bucked up, dug his fingers in Makoto’s hair like there was treasure to be found if he yanked hard enough.

“I dunno…can we just, stay here for a bit?”

“We’ve been lying down since we finished getting each other off twenty minutes ago. We don’t have much time left, okay?” Kisumi pushes him up fully, nudges Makoto’s hand with his own so the latter can stop counting the number of marks on the ceiling. Despite holding back, despite resisting, Makoto turns his head to look at Kisumi.

It’s been ten months since Makoto could indulge in how often he looked at Kisumi, versus the ones before where he could only dare to steal a glance, because if he stared for too long, someone would notice, the girls who follow Kisumi everywhere would notice and know he’s like them, _Kisumi_ could notice and think he’s weird. But now - after an evening in the outdoor basketball courts when Kisumi tried stealing the ball from Makoto’s outstretched arm, knocking them both over and Makoto thinking, “What if I finally gave into Kisumi’s pun, what if I just took that leap?” - Makoto still has to hold his breath when he takes Kisumi in, because he’s _beautiful_.

Makoto tells him this often, when they’re alone. They’re alone often, restricted to no more than “close friends” when in school or in public. Only Haru and a couple of members of the basketball team know about the two of them, but they still can’t, they don’t tuck stray strands of hair behind the other’s ear when others are around, they can’t kiss the other on the cheek or entwine fingers, lean into each other like do when it’s Makoto, Kisumi, and the closed door.

Kisumi smiles, white teeth just another color on his rainbow palette, bright and cheerful and sweet. “Okay?”

Makoto returns the smile, he has to, he can’t help it, and nods, lets Kisumi lean down with his lips barely apart to kiss him.

They do this for a while, just mouth against mouth, chest over chest and heartbeats racing to their own beat. Makoto moves his hands to Kisumi’s hair, made to be messy and dares to become messier, groans when Kisumi bites at the corner of Makoto’s lower lip, the only person to know that it’ll affect Makoto like this.

Kisumi always laughs in Makoto’s mouth, manic and soft, before he pulls away, begins to suck on his pulse and grinds his hips down. Makoto remembers hearing Kisumi laugh, the first time meeting him, being instantly reminded of Nagisa and Rin, their determination contained in small bodies and laughs and smiles with a purpose almost as much with enjoyment. But Kisumi is Kisumi, and the ways Rin and Nagisa are like him fade to black, they’re not him, they probably wouldn’t kiss like him (he doesn’t want to kiss them), they wouldn’t want to hold hands when they know no judging stares would come (he doesn’t want to hold hands with them like they’re intimate).

The sensation’s traveled from neck to chest and back to his mouth again and Kisumi is grinding harder, more aggressive, and Makoto’s begun to reciprocate, hands shifting down so they’re tucked in Kisumi’s back pockets, fingers curling tight, and digging his hips _down_.

The harder they go, the more they moan and keen into each other, Makoto wonders what Kisumi will do in high school. Will he still be popular, will girls still chase him, will he date one of them?

Will he forget about Makoto?

Will Makoto forget about him?

The Makoto hears, feels his name poured into his mouth, and he tilts his head back away from Kisumi and screams when they both come undone.

Kisumi rolls off and they both kick off their pants, grabbing the tissues on Makoto’s nightstand to clean themselves off as much as they can. After, Kisumi returns to his original spot, but he pulls Makoto with him, tucking them both under the covers and tucking his head on Makoto’s shoulder.

The snow continues to flurry outside, the soft acoustic stylings on the radio have returned. Makoto’s bed is comfortable, familiar, just like Kisumi holding him.

There’s an unusual whisper in his neck, “How much longer til your family get’s back?”

“Another hour I think?”

“Okay. Let’s wake up in half an hour then to fix everything.”

“Yeah, okay.”

A pause.

“Kisumi?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll still like basketball.”

The whisper shapes itself into a smile. “You’re too good to let it go. Basketball would be a loss without you.”


End file.
